
FEW SONNETS AND VERSES 

BY 

ESTHER MORTON SMITH 




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A FEW SONNETS AND VERSES 

BY 
ESTHER MORTON SMITH 



Staton Bros. 
Publishers 



MAR ''^ \9U 



V ■ 'ti''*> 



Copyright, 1911 
by Staton Bros- 



TO MY MOTHER 

This little book is dedicated; 
in grateful appreciation of her 
unfailing interest and sympathy. 



CONTENTS 
Part I. 

Judge Lindsey, American Citizen 1 

Suggested at the Unveiling of the Shaw Memorial 2 

The Eternal Need 3 

The Heritage 5 

The Children Who Tread the Sod 6 

The Word of the Hour 8 

In Memoriam 

Wm. T. Richards -9 

In Memoriam 

C. W. W 10 

Our Comrades, Departed H 

Four Sonnets 

I. Father, when on my soul the shadows fall .... 12 
II. Through clouds and darkness Thou hast led 

my way 13 

III. My soul lay tossing on a troubled sea 14 

IV. Father, though child of earth, yet child of Thine . . 15 

Alfred, Rex Saxonum 16 

Lincoln . . . . > 1^ 

Two Sonnets 

I. Which one of us, o'er whom the years have sped . 18 
II. And still the sun pours earthward life and cheer . . 19 



Part II. 

INTO THE OPEN 

The Pines 20 

At the Sea's Edge 21 

The Old Hog Island Light 22 

A Florida Beach at Twilight 24 

" East of the Sun and West of the Moon " 25 

Scrub Oaks Camp 26 

The Duchy 27 

After a Night Under the Trees 29 

Off Canoeing 30 

On the Island 32 

To My Comrade at the Oar 33 

One Thanksgiving Day 34 

Our Garden 35 

Lines Written for Three Pictures by A. B. Frost 37 

April 39 

A Song of the Springtime 41 

A Song of a Summer Night 42 

Opening of the New Year, and the New House 43 

The Weather-stained Glass Speaks 44 

In the Fall of the Year 46 

To the Cricket 48 

The Mushrooms 49 

The Weeds of the Wayside 50 

Some River Verses 54 



PART I 



JUDGE LINDSEY, AMERICAN CITIZEN 

Give ear! A man is risen from cur soil 
To show us that the truth does make men free. 
A man who knows no fear, who shirks no toil, 
Whose very breath of life is liberty. 

Cast off and unregarded, at his feet 
Unhallowed gifts of place and fortune lie ; 
Crude things and poor, to him whose daily meat 
Is the Eternal Truth of God on high. 

Buyers and sellers of the souls of men! 

Makers of slaves! A single-handed foe, 

A freeman, fronts your armies alien. 

Look to yourselves. God's mills grind sure and slow. 



SUGGESTED AT THE UNVEILING OF 

THE SHAW MEMORIAL ON 

BOSTON COMMON 

How well they told us of the days gone by, 
When blood and fire proved the worth of men. 

They stirred our hearts, and moistened every eye, 
Life was worth living, death was glory, then! 

Yet think you he who fell upon the height 

Where steel and fire their deadly welcome gave. 

Or he, who, home returning from the fight. 
Shall bear his scars of honor to his grave — 

Think you the one or other fought or bled. 
And held his life a thing of little worth. 

That glory on his name might still be shed. 

When his brave heart was cold beneath the earth? 

Nay, purer, deeper, stronger far than life, 

"Stern daughter of the voice of God," thy call. 

Gave manhood courage in that awful strife — 
Courage to do, to die, to suffer all. 

And think not we who face the world to-day. 

Her voice is mute because the drums are still; 

Be all our care to listen and obey. 

To give, as they gave, all, if so God will. 



THE ETERNAL NEED 

To work, with weary limbs and throbbing brain, 
The night's brief respite, then to work again 
And still to work, scarce heeding sun or rain. 

To work though leaves be fresh upon the trees, 
Though all the blossoms lure the wand'ring bees, 
Though nodding grasses whisper in the breeze ! 

Yet what of those that play, have they found rest. 

Is sweet peace fellow to the mirthless jest. 

Can playthings turn the soul from her great quest? 

Ah restless night and weary, weary day! 

New toys, new toys, there's time for naught but play, 

No time to think, no time to turn away ! 

And is this all for which Creation groans? 

We die for bread, God, hast Thou naught but stones 

To feed the hunger that Thy whole earth owns? 

Oh for the faith but as a mustard seed. 
To bring Thy answer in the hour of need — 
To bring Thyself, unbound by form or creed. 

Let us be silent, for God's voice is low ; 
Let us be patient, for His mills grind slow, 
Let us be humble, for His Christ was so. 



And as the green blade holds the tender ear 
Close in its heart, so, resting without fear 
One day our souls shall know that God is here. 

Then that which has been bitter shall grow sweet, 
Nor shall we heed the stones that bruise our feet, 
For Lo'\^e shall touch, and heal, and make complete. 



THE HERITAGE 

Out of the drifting mists and clinging mire, 

Lift up thine eyes — thy birthright still remains — 

Thy sonship to the King of kings, thy Sire, 
Whose royal blood is coursing in thy veins. 

Leave the base husks that never could content thee. 

For all the while thy soul was hungered sore; 
The poor pretense of pleasure that they lent thee, 
Made thy real bitterness but felt the more. 

Leave these, and straightway seek the King, thy father- 
He stands, so strong, so tender, at thy side. 

No harsh reproach awaiting thee, but rather 
Great floods of love, boundless as ocean's tide. 

No word thy lips may utter, none is needed. 

Canst thou believe thy Father has forgot? 
Not one past bitter drop but He has heeded. 

And drawn the closer, though thou knewest not. 

A thousand times thy needs His largess covers — 
Over against thy weakness stands His strength — 

And the deep love that round thee broods and hovers. 
Not yet thou knowest, but thou shalt at length. 

No deed of thine has power to thrust thee, lonely, 
Forth from that Heart of Love, serene and pure. 

For sin and death are shadows, His love, only. 
The great reality that shall endure. 



THE CHILDREN WHO TREAD THE SOD 

Over the rising hill I trod, 
Where the wind swept in from the wild, gray sea 
And the drifting scud flew over me; 

And my heart gave thanks to the Living God. 

Close on the roadside, left and right, 
The sweet wild things of the open grew 
All astir with the wind that blew ; 

And my heart was full with the joy of the sight. 

For the beauty of down and field was mine, 
The sea and the wind and the storm-lashed day. 
And the peace that deep at the heart of them lay 

Entered my soul from the Soul Divine. 

Trust and courage and all good cheer 
To us, the children who tread the sod! 
Does not our loving Father and God 

Grant us His Presence, now and here? 

Out of the sunlight that bids rejoice. 
Out of the rocks and the changeless stars, 
Out of our sins and our prison bars, 

We, the children, may hear his voice. 



What though we've stumbled, and shall again? 
Mortal, He made us whose thought is law; 
Closer, perchance, to His Love we draw 

For the wounded pride and the smarting pain. 

What though we've fallen — (we, *heirs of God') 
Fair in the face of each new-born day 
Shines the new-born chance, and the untried way 

And the call to the children who tread the sod. 



THE WORD OF THE HOUR 

A sere brown field bereft of spring and youth, 
And off beyond a purple mist of trees ; 
So little — yet in common things like these 
Speak the eternities of Love and Truth. ^ 

Cease, baffled soul, thy fruitless questionings. 
In the calm presence of this earth and sky. 
Enough, to-day, that thou canst not pass by 
Unmoved, unhumbled, blind, such common things. 



IN MEMORIAM 

William T. Richards 

Again the voice that brooks no questioning 
Speaks, from the stillness of the vast unknown. 
Again the silent form, the majesty, 
The empty citadel, the spirit flown. 

Let us not weep, although our hearts be full, 
Nor sadly mourn the passing of his soul 
Whose high and steadfast purpose, like a star, 
Led him unswerving toward a lofty goal. 

The master's hands are stilled forever more, 
(So well they wrought, to lie so quiet now) 
And the deep sleep God giveth his beloved, 
Has wrapped in peace his laurel-crowned brow. 



IN MEMORIAM 

C. W. W. 

The battle, long and terrible, is done, 

And he who fought lies victor, calm and still. 

Our words but mar the triumph he has won. 
Let us be silent, now, for speech were ill. 

No empty silence ours, for we have, seen 

This soldier, single-handed in the fray. 
And somewhat witnessed of the sufferings keen. 

That left no rest by night, nor strength by day. 

Somewhat, we saw; his Captain, only, knew 
The wounds he carried, and the battle's trend. 

The high resolve that with the conflict grew, 
To keep his soul in patience till the end. 

He longed for rest, but stooped not to complaint. 

And trusting in the Captain of his fight. 
Wounded and bleeding, sore at heart and faint, 

Yet he believed that Captain led aright. 

And some who knew him stand with firmer feet. 

With hearts more humble, and with sight more sure. 

Because, throughout the battle's stress and heat. 
They saw his soul grow stronger and more pure. 



.10 



OUR COMRADES, DEPARTED 

Into the soundless deep our comrades pass — 
Into the world that lies beyond our sight, 
Calm as the stars, and silent as the night. 
And hidden as the wind that stirs the grass. 
Children with us but now, in the great class 
Of common, daily, striving toward the right. 
Their fellowship has made our burdens light 
And eased the cares that needlessly harass. 
Dear Comrades, as you leave us, one by one, 
Nearer and fairer draws that unknown land 
Whose sight, God's love withholds a little while. 
Again we turn and seek the tasks undone 
With humbler, stronger faith, while, close at hand, 
Our dear old comrades wait us with a smile. 



11 



• FOUR SONNETS 
I 

Father, when on my soul the shadows fall, 
Even the beauty of Thy common things 
That well I love, but slender comfort brings, 
For Thou art hidden Who art All in all. 
Then cruel doubt, descending like a pall. 
With her dark train, about my spirit clings, 
And all unbid, rise hopeless questionings. 
While heavy darkness holds my life in thrall. 
Yet e'en these clouds may never quite erase 
Rare days that stand illumined from the whole, 
When peace too deep for words to sound, was mine. 
So near they brought 'the smile upon Thy Face,' 
Those days that live forever in my soul. 
For then I knew that all our ways are Thine. 



12 



II 

Through clouds and darkness Thou hast led my way 

Into the boundless valley of Thy Peace, 

Where, happily, my soul hath found release 

From cares that grievously on her did prey. 

And now the night has vanished, and the day, 

With clearer vision, bringeth swift increase 

Of faith that Love Eternal doth not cease 

O'er earth and heaven to hold almighty sway ; 

That pain and death and sin — yea, even such, 

In the vast reaches of the endless years. 

Shall prove to bear Love's message in the touch 

That, for a bitter moment, blinds and sears. 

My Father, all that is, lo. Thou hast planned, 

And boldest in the hollow of Thy hand. 



13 



Ill 

My soul lay tossing on a troubled sea, 
And doubts and cares, desires unfulfilled, 
And fears whose icy breath my spirit chilled. 
Seemed barriers strong to hold me far from Thee. 
When, gently as the dawn. Thou sendedst me 
Most blessed peace — and as the waves were stilled, 
I saw that Thou alone their strife hadst willed, 
To break the chains that bound, and set me free. 
Wherefore my spirit breathes no heedless prayer, 
But this alone, that Thy dear love prevail, 
Wherein doth lie all comfort to my soul. 
For I have seen Thy Truth that she is fair ; 
Henceforth shall solace me no idle tale. 
No broken fragments turn me from the whole. 



14 



IV 

Father, though child of earth, yet child of Thine, 
I come with little save a new-born trust. 
That brings deep Heaven itself to mortal dust, 
And quickens death and life with breath divine. 
Yea, all of life hath changed from gall to wine, 
And all of death, once dark with sad mistrust, 
The cloud upon the day, forever thrust. 
Now as the very life supreme doth shine. 
And all my spirit feels Thy Spirit near. 
Shedding such joyous life as doth fair Spring, 
When on the barren earth she bends her smile. 
Such Presence holds no fellowship with fear. 
And sorrow hath become a sacred thing, 
Whose sting endureth but a little while. 



15 



ALFRED, REX SAXONUM 

The unrelenting ocean sweeps the shore, 

And inch by inch, despoils her fair domains ; 

Where once the soft winds whispered to the plains. 

Now sounds alone the insatiate conqueror's roar. 

But some great rock, a mountain peak of yore. 

Lifts the strong front that wind and wave disdains, 

The mightier, in that he, alone, remains. 

To tell of centuries that are no more. 

So, clear from out the time-engulfed past. 

Stands he, whom, only, of her kingly race, 

England hath christened "Great." Strong, patient, wise, 

In rude, unrestful times his lot was cast. 

Yet that self-mastery shone on his face. 

Wherein the mastery of nations lies. 



16 



LINCOLN 

He dwelt among us, and we knew him not ; 
Yet well his comrades knew the kindly heart, 
The ready wit, where malice bore no part, 
The sterling honor that could yield no jot. 
Then dawned an hour never to be forgot, 
When all the nation's bulwarks seemed to start. 
And every passion loosed its fiery dart, 
Freighted with malice, and with anger hot. 
And to this man the tortured nation turned. 
Who, heavy-hearted with his awful trust, 
Yet steadfast, patient, wise, that trust fulfilled, 
Till, as some gauge of his great soul we learned. 
Some measure of the burden on him thrust. 
He left us, dazed and stricken. So God willed. 



17 



^ 



TWO SONNETS 
I 

Which one of us, o'er whom the years have sped, 

But in his heart has craved some dearest boon, 

To him denied ; which, lacking, sun and moon 

Were darkened and the joy of life lay dead? 

What soul but in its agony has bled 

Those silent, crimson drops that, late or soon, 

On each life's record trace that world-old rune — 

The legend of a hope forever fled? 

Let us not always mourn, nor yet forget. 

But where the heart its hidden treasure holds 

That memory keep. And often from such heart 

Where hope and hope's denial so are met. 

Some stronger and more steadfast life unfolds. 

Some unguessed springs of gladness upward start. 



18 



II 



And still the sun pours earthward life and cheer, 
And with his mighty fires consumes the West 
At death of day; still, on her virgin quest, 
With hosts of stars attendant, pure and clear, 
Does the beloved and gracious moon appear ; 
The Spring still calls the earth from her long rest. 
To swell the buds, and fill each downy nest. 
And light the pathway of the coming year. 
And all these perfect things of sense are ours ; 
And ours the spirits of the mighty dead, 
Be we but worthy. And for us this day. 
In which to live, — with all our fullest powers; 
Our best resolve and highest effort wed, 
And fruitless grief forever put away. 



19 



PART II 

INTO THE OPEN. 



THE PINES 

I lie beneath the sweet-breathed mountain pines, 

The murmuring pines, with kindly arms outspread. 

Through whose soft shade, upon my fragrant bed. 

With fleet caress the fitful sunlight shines. 

The wandering breezes sway their tall outlines, 

And from the million strings above my head, 

A breath of softest melody is shed. 

Whose witchery, scarce even thought defines. 

But when the wind, like some mad, romping boy. 

Comes whirling, headlong, down the mountain side, 

Singing, hallooing, shrieking in his glee. 

The pines, his comrades, fellows in his joy. 

Sway their great tops, and fling their branches wide, 

Chanting wild songs of forest revelry. 



20 



AT THE SEA'S EDGE 

The downs stretch outward to the open sea, 

Treeless and wind-swept, bathed by sun and rain. 

Thrust sharply through, again and yet again. 

By rough-spurred granite — yet 'tis life to be 

A wanderer there, where all's unbound and free, 

Where's but the God-created rock and plain 

And heaven's blue deeps, down reaching to the main- 

Where every breath's a thing of ecstasy. 

Soft as its floating kindred of the skies, 
New parted from the mighty, untamed mate 
On whose wild breast it sleeps, tameless as he. 
Over the downs the sea fog drifts, and lies. 

^ ^ ^ ^ t^ 

And sudden sound springs forth in warning, straight, 
From all the booming sentries of the sea! 



21 



THE OLD HOG ISLAND LIGHT 

League on league of the trackless sea, 

And mile on mile of the rolling dunes, 
Where the mad wind shrieks in an ecstasy. 

Or tenderly, softly, a love note croons — 

A lullaby to the baby hawks. 

Cradled high in the swaying pines, 
Whose world is fashioned of sticks and stalks. 

Where cool drops fall, or the warm sun shines. 

Mile on mile of the barren dunes. 

With gnarled old cedars against the sky. 

Where the wind and the weather have carved strange 
runes 
Of life's unsearchable mystery. 

Where the old, white light-house stands alone. 

Fronting the sea with its sightless eye. 
Whence, nightly, a steadfast fire shone 

On the sailor's path, in the years gone by. 

Darkness reigns in its turret, now. 

When night creeps up from the solemn East ; 

The ships still sail and the winds still blow. 

But the old light's service has long since ceased. 



22 



Only the birds fly in and out 

Or light on the steps of the winding stair ; 
Only the breezes play about, 

And whisper the secrets of earth and air. 

Old King of the Island, your work is done. 
And the young king reigns, as it still must be. 

But yours is the peace of a rest well won. 
And the evening calm of a quiet sea. 



23 



A FLORIDA BEACH AT TWILIGHT 

Still, in the West, the dying sunset glows. 

And the great light-house tower against the sky, 

To North and South, and leagues to seaward, throws 
Its message through the twilight's mystery. 

And mile on mile of gray, untrodden beach. 
Welcomes the soft caressing of the sea. 

While, from the heaven's illimitable reach, 
A new-born star shines downward, tenderly. 

Alas, where are the words that fitly tell 
That evening's most exquisite majesty! 

Blessed and thrice blest, we who felt its spell. 
By the dim margin of the wondrous sea. 



24 



"EAST OF THE SUN AND WEST OF THE MOON" 

"East of the Sun and West of the Moon," 
And holding the heart in thrall. 
Close to the trodden ways of men, 
And worlds away from them all, 
The hidden land of enchantment lies ; 

And I've strayed through its woodlands, and gazed on 
its skies. 

I know where its shadows are cool and deep, 
I know where its hidden waters sleep. 
Where the crimson lily stems reach up 
To the fragrant bliss of the creamy cup. 
IVe followed the way of the winding stream 
Where flashes of golden amber gleam 
Through a dim, sweet twilight, that all day long 
Lovingly lingers the leaves among. 

"East of the Sun and West of the Moon," 

Lies the enchanted land — 

And who follows the lead of its soft wood trails. 

Fragrant, and leafy spanned. 

And feels, on a sudden, his heart beat free. 

To the far-heard, thundering call of the Sea — 

Though he wander far, yet he'll come again. 

At the winds' soft whisper, the voice of the rain. 

At the bidding of night, at the summons of noon. 

Where it's "East of the Sun and West of the Moon." 



25 



SCRUB OAKS CAMP 

Down by the grassy water's edge, 
The old frogs croak in a friendly way, 
As twilight gathers on rock and sedge. 
Clothing the earth in a tender gray. 

Gently the wind through the branches blows. 
The whip-poor-will from the tree-top calls. 
As softer and darker the twilight grows. 
Deeper and deeper the silence falls. 

*«]« *i» •!« mlm 

•»• 'S* ^* •!• 

And out of the silence grows a sound — 
The thunderous note of the distant sea. 
Forever voicing its strength unbound, 
And the soul of its tameless liberty. 



26 



THE DUCHY, 
(An Island owned by "the Duchess") 

Over the lake the Duchy lies, 

Silent and green and fair, 
Cooled by the tears of the summer skies, 

And the breath of the summer air. 

Peopled by busy and noiseless folk 
That burrow and climb and swim, 

That peep from the boughs of the rustling oak, 
Or hide in the pine shades dim. 

There where the needles lie soft and deep. 

And the beds of fern spring up. 
The Amanita, while mortals sleep. 

Starts from its poisoned cup. 

Close in the open the sun pours down 

On the berries, mellow and sweet. 
On the grasses ripened to golden brown. 

On the rocks that bask in the heat. 

Old as the hills — and young as the hills. 

With a youth that never dies. 
Whose promise each season in turn fulfills. 

Under the changing skies. 



27 



And be the Duchy in crimson dressed, 

Or gleaming, spotless white. 
Or shimmering green, each seems the best. 

For each, in its turn, is right. 

Over the lake the Duchy lies, 

Child of the sun and air. 
Kin to the stars, and the open skies. 

And the best that is everywhere. 



28 



AFTER A NIGHT UNDER THE TREES 

No music ever fell more soft and sweet 

Than such as did my early waking greet. 

Through boughs that spread above me, where I lay 

The little breeze flew in and out at play ; 

The leaves sang softly, as he went and came ; 

The}^ dipped and swayed, and gladly joined his game. 

And here and there and everywhere, were heard 

The pipe and trill of many a joyous bird. 

From field and wooded hillside, overstream, 

A sound came floating, softly as a dream — 

It whispered of wild pasture on the slopes. 

Of quiet farms, and simple cares and hopes, 

Of creamy, frothing milk, within the pail. 

The three-legged stool (and eke the whisking tail) 

Of berry-patches, and green-clustered bay: — 

The tinkle of a cow-bell, far away. 



29 



OFF CANOEING 

Let's away with the rippling river. 
Let's follow the lead of the steady stream, 
Skirting the banks where the aspens quiver. 
And skimming the pools where the fishes gleam. 

Hark, for I hear its strong pulse beating ! 
Heart of the river and heart of the sea; 
Rocks and waters with tumult meeting. 
The ever-fixed, and the ever-free. 
* * * * * 

Away and away for the sun's past setting; 
The wood-thrush, deep in the trees above, 
Grieves for the sorrow there's no forgetting. 
And throbs and thrills with the pulse of love. 

And just as the twilight gathers o'er us. 
And rocks grow dark in the waning day, 
The little village is there before us. 
Only an easy reach away. 

Now for the shore and the drift-wood fire. 
For things that sputter and hiss and steam. 
And fill to brimming the heart's desire 
Of those who hungered and dared to dream. 

Heap on the wood, for of that there's plenty 
To fill us with comfort and ruddy cheer. 
The mystic hours of the four and twenty. 
The rare, the subtle, the charmed are here. 



30 



Across in the meadow with many voices 
The frogs are piping — and all the night 
Is alive and athrill with soft small noises 
Of watching wood-folk hidden from sight. 

And the glow of the fire that lights our faces, 
Flashes its crimson on branch and leaf, 
And into the woods* deep shadowy places. 

^ H: H: H: ^ 

And the thrush has forgotten her love and grief. 



31 



ON THE ISLAND 

All day we drank deep draughts of life, 

We walked with the mountains, face to face. 

The forest trees were our sentinels. 

And the waters circled our resting-place. 

All night we lay where the light of stars 

Into the fragrant branches fell. 
And the strength of the silence, the mighty peace, 

Never the tongue of man can tell. 

Rare days of pleasure, and still, sweet nights. 
Your blessings follow our passing feet; 

You offered wine to the thirsty soul. 

And the hungring spirit you fed with meat. 



32 



TO MY COMRADE AT THE OAR 

Still was the air, and the stars shone clear, 

Motionless darkness the water lay. 
On those nights when summer still lingered near, 

And we pulled round the island across the bay. 

All the voices of night had bidden, 

Gladly we answered their summons forth; 

Out where the buoys lay darkly hidden. 
Out round the shoal to the island's north. 

The little town with its ruddy glow. 

And the watchful eye of each harbor light. 

Held in the water that lay below. 

Were shining streams in a land of night. 

And swept by the current along the shores. 
Ghostly jelly fish glowed and burned. 

While at each stroke of our speeding oars. 
To molten silver the water turned. 

Then, for a moment we drank in the quiet. 

Silencing even the dip of an oar. 
Hearing no sound save the high-hearted riot 

Kept by the crickets that piped on the shore. 
***** 

Autumn is here with her first breath of chillness — 
Hoary old winter is next in her train — 

Will you remember those nights of warm stillness 
Till the swift seasons shall bring them again? 

33 



ONE THANKSGIVING DAY 

Over the hills with a keen, cold breeze, 

On a road that rings to the lusty tread — 

Winter sun on the naked trees, 
And a sky of turquoise overhead. 

Skirting the field where the corn-shocks stand, 
Stripped and bare of their golden cheer. 

Save where the reaper, with careless hand. 
Left (for us surely) that one ripe ear. 

Over the hills with bounding hearts. 

And faces that glow in the wind*s keen sweep, 
With a racing, tingling pulse that starts 

The red blood surging with each swift leap. 

Over the hills with a fellow tramp. 

Sure and ready, and sound of heart. 
Strongly built on a man's right stamp. 

Playing ever a man's true part. 

Who seeks riches to beggar gold, 

Priceless, yet to the whole world free. 

Let him forth in the bracing cold. 

And over the hills with a tramp and me. 



34 



OUR GARDEN 

The restless trolley cars speed up and down 
With clash and clamor o£ a busy street, 

And carts and wagons, to and from the town, 
Roll noisily along mid dust and heat. 

Ah, who of all that tread the public way 
Scorched by the fiery monarch of the skies. 

Could guess, how sheltered from the glaring day, 
How cool and green, our little garden lies. 

Eight stone steps up, a brick path, then a gate, — 
Where now the town with all its dusty din? 

For here sweet odors with the zephyrs mate 
And breathe a welcome as I step within. 

Deep shadows lie upon the garden path; 

Scant sky above, but countless hosts of leaves, 
Midst which the baffled sun, in burning wrath, 

A tangled mesh of green and yellow weaves, 

Wherein the baby pears are turning red 
With luscious promise for the days to be; 

Safe out of reach they dangle overhead. 
And ripen into sweet maturity. 

A short space on our lordly maple stands 
Lifting his head above all neighbor trees. 

Swaying and rustling all his leafy bands 
In boon companionship to every breeze. 

35 



What secrets are you whispering, old tree? 

I listen and I listen in your shade, 
And only know your music seems to me 

One of the sweetest sounds that God has made. 

Near by, all bursting into fragrant bloom, 
Our lovely damasks cluster in the sun; 

The bees have found them by that rare perfume 
That wafts the good news, "Summer has begun." 

The lilies-of-the-valley, cool and green, 
The clump of lilacs, high against the wall. 

Seringa, iris, violets, celandine, 

Sweetbrier, grape-vine, wood-bine, here are all. 

And in this little garden of our own, 

We weed and water, dig and trim, at will ; 

We smile to see how tall our plants are grown, 
And sometimes sigh — for weeds are hard to kill. 

And sometimes on the garden bench we sit 
'Mid fragrant odors, and soft summer sounds, 

With book unread, perchance, or note un-writ, 
Contented idlers in enchanted grounds. 



36 



LINES WRITTEN 

FOR 

THREE PICTURES BY A. B. FROST 

Oh who would not a farmer be 

When the frost has left the ground, 

When the warm, moist earth smells pleasantly, 

And the signs of spring abound. 

With a twitter here, and a flutter there, 

And tender green shoots everywhere? 

The gardener stirs his brushwood fire. 

The pungent smoke soars slowly higher. 

What more can the farmer's heart desire. 

Than Spring's fair promise, by Autumn crowned. 

Oh who would not a farmer be 

When the lush grass is green. 

And over the meadow, like waves at sea. 

Ripples a silver sheen? 

But oh, alas! for the reaper's scythe. 

The fields must render a heavy tithe! 

The farmer stands in the cool, green shade, 

And little he recks of his grass, low laid; 

Come sun, come shower, his hay is made. 

And his barns well stocked for the winter keen. 

And who would not a farmer be 
When pumpkins shine like the sun. 
And the great round moon is fair to see 
When the farmer's work is done, 

37 



When the yellow corn shocks glow like gold, 

And nights give hint of the winter's cold? 

Then oh, for the merry husking bee. 

The bright red apple and cranberrie. 

And oh plump turkey, alas for thee. 

Thy pride and thy fatness have thee undone. 



38 



APRIL 

The April showers fall, patter, patter, 

Over the country side; 
They wet one's toes (but that's no matter) 
The hope they're bringing, the joy they scatter. 

The life they waken, 'twere ill to chide. 

A fine, fat robin is briskly hopping 

Over the green-tinged sward; 
He twitters and chirps, with no thought of stopping, 
There's music to him in the rain's soft dropping. 

Aye, marry! Fat worms and a fine dinner toward. 

Some brave little shoots are shyly peeping 

Into the great big world; 
And others will follow that now are sleeping, 
The baby vines will begin their creeping. 

And the leaves be all uncurled. 

The pussy-willows, so soft and furry. 

Came with the March winds, cold; 
Their jackets were made for the swift snow-flurry, 
And that's why they came in so much of a hurry. 

And why they're so hardy and bold. 



39 



The April showers are falling, falling, 

(Scattering far and wide) 
Over the stones where the brook runs brawling, 
Over the trees where the crow flies, calling. 

And the old farmsteads hide. 

Sweet month of frowning and smiles and laughter 

Welcome, your falling tears 
That play soft tunes o'er the dim old rafter. 
And slip, with a song, down the rain-pipe after, 

Comforting him who hears. 



40 



A SONG OF THE SPRINGTIME 

The petals fall like great white flakes 
On the lush grass below, 
And the joy of spring fills everything 
With a brimming overflow. 

The air is sweet with the tender scents 

Of a thousand growing things, 

With the twittering notes of feathered throats. 

And the flutter of busy wings. 

Within the garden the shade lies cool, 
And the fragrance floats like mist; 
The sweet briar blows, and the lilac glows 
With clusters of amethyst. 

Ah, springing life, and swelling buds, 
And happy leaves on the tree. 
And dear, dear grass, 'ere your beauty pass. 
Will my love's heart turn to me? 



41 



A SONG OF A SUMMER NIGHT 

Soft through my window the night wind blows. 
Sweet with the freshness of swamp and field; 
Hid from my sight by the warm summer night, 
Wild growing gardens their fragrance yield. 

Under my window, close at hand, 
Rippling noises of waters rise, 
Whispering o'er, to the listening shore. 
Secrets close-hidden from human eyes. 

Forth from my window, as I gaze 
Into the fragrant summer night, 
Miles away, o'er the spreading bay. 
Flashes and darkens the harbor light. 



42 



OPENING OF THE NEW YEAR, AND THE 
NEW HOUSE 

Without, the lustrous moon pours down her light 
On the wild, seething leagues that toss below ; 
Northward and southward, ever, through the night, 
The ships, beneath her radiance, come and go. 

With throbbing, pulsing life, and heart of fire. 
And voice that echoes over the water's face. 
Or with strong, silent sails that never tire. 
Onward they pass, and leave no sign nor trace. 

Without, the dunes lie motionless and still. 

Bathed in the flooding beauty of the night. 

On whom the winds and waves have wrought their will 

From the first birth of darkness and of light. 

Within, there's light and warmth and friends and cheer, 
A drift-wood fire, the smoke of fragrant weed — 
What if the icy sea be raging near 
And the wind shrieking like a soul in need! 

Here's to the house that stands beside the sea. 
Long winters and long summers may it stand! 
Here's to our host and hostess, — ^he, and she, — 
The greatest host and hostess in the land. 



43 



THE WEATHER-STAINED GLASS SPEAKS 

High on the crest of the rock I lay, 

A colorless fragment — a castaway — 

Nothing better than broken glass 

Till the very ribs of the rocks shall pass. 

But oh, the flush of the growing dawn. 
And the waking of birds when the night is gone! 
And the burning, blistering noon-day heat, 
And the patter of rain with the million feet! 

Oh, the breath of the wind in the whispering trees. 
When the moon's adrift in the great high seas! 
And the touch of the snow in the still, white weather. 
When cold and storm-cloud have wrought together! 

Mine were they all, as I lay on high. 
And lo, a part of them all, grew I! 
They gave me color, they gave me soul. 
They made of the fragment a shining whole. 

No longer, high on my rocky crest. 
But set on a silver throne, I rest. 
Bearing, henceforward, my seal and sign, 
As a pledge of the glory that once was mine. 



44 



Do you feel a hint of the fading light, 

And the luminous deeps of the purple night? 

And the violet haze of the autumn days 

When the smoke drifts down from the woods, ablaze? 

Oh carry me East or carry me West, 
My dower I've had of the greatest and best. 
My dower I've had of the strong and the free 
That till now have been, and from now shall be. 



45 



IN THE FALL OF THE YEAR 

The autumn day was half way spent, 
The still, soft, smoky autumn day; 
Up the long slope the highway leant. 
And full of such a day's content, 
I followed, where it led away. 

Through leafy tangles of wild vines — 
Ah, there's a foe, all crimson-clad! 
Over the old stone wall he twines; 
I know the rascal's tell-tale signs, 
And yet his beauty makes me glad. 

A thorough-going gypsy tramp 
With evil touch, and scarce a friend. 
Fence, field or fallow for his camp ; 
A graceless, pleasure-loving scamp 
Whose ways, I fear, will never mend. 

Down drops my road, to slip between 
The marshes bordering the shore. 
Still radiant with summer's green; 
And how they flash, and dip, and lean. 
To the wind, passing o'er! 

Then out where all the world's been won 
By armies of plumed golden rod. 
That flaunt their banners in the sun. 
For Summer's fiery race is run. 
And Autumn's foot-fall prints the sod. 



46 



Free-hearted legions of the fall, 

Last largess of the passing year, 

What wealth of gold you fling to all! 

It brims above the gray, old wall 

And the roadside glows with its yellow cheer. 

Wherever the upland's white with dew 

At the misty dawn of the Autumn day. 

And the grassy foot-path wanders through 

Tangles of aster white and blue. 

Your plumed knights follow its winding way. 

And wherever the great rocks plant their feet 
At the edge of the tides that swirl and sway. 
And king meets king, as tried foes meet, 
There, close on the battle's surging heat, 
You toss with the wind and the flying spray. 

But every lane it's turning meets. 
And darkness follows hard on day. 
So, homeward, to the bustling streets — 
The busy heart of life, that beats 
In the old town across the bay. 

Home, from the highway, treasure-trove 
With the fresh beauty of the fields; 
The wealth that unto all who love 
The goodly soil and the stars above 
Our old Earth Mother yields. 



47 



TO THE CRICKET 

My little friend and neighbor in the grass, 
How pleasantly you sing, the cool night through! 

If we dull folk heed not your voice, alas. 
The loss is ours, it matters not to you. 

For you've the fresh and dewy blades of green. 
And you've the cool, moist earth for your delight, 

The moon and stars, and all that's heard and seen 
And felt and breathed on such a fragrant night. 

And you've the Autumn sunlight's mellow glow. 
The golden rod, the hosts of crimson leaves. 

The aster's royal robes, and plumes of snow. 
The great, round pumpkins and the yellow sheaves. 

And sometimes, when your cheery little voice 
Slips in, through chink or cranny, to my ear, 

On crisp Autumnal evenings, I rejoice 
Because of you, my little neighbor, dear. 



48 



THE MUSHROOMS 

(In an Old Pasture near the Shore) 

Up from the ground we spring to sight, 
Pink, and russet, and creamy white, 
Up from the ground, without a sound. 
Into the breathing, pulsing night. 

The tribes of the crickets were there before, 
And the waves that ripple along the shore; 
Small waves that flee up an arm of the sea 
And sing with the pebbles, joyously. 

On little runways that thread the grass. 
O'er miniature mountain and steep crevasse, 
Furtive and fleet, with noiseless feet. 
The tiny folk o' the open pass. 

And the friendly hosts of the stars smile down 
On our little white caps, and caps of brown. 
And the milky way, for ever and aye, 
Spans the deeps with a starry crown. 

Come to the fields while the day's still young. 
And the troops of mushrooms newly sprung; 
While the dew of the morn that's scarce yet born. 
Sparkles like diamonds broadcast flung; 

Come while the fresh, pure dawn still lingers. 
With searching eyes, and with nimble fingers — 
For a brave command of the mushroom band 
By night has taken the pasture-land ! 

49 



THE WEEDS OF THE WAYSIDE 

I'll sing a song of the wayside weeds, 
The farmer's pest, and the gardener's scorn; 
But the treasure of chubby little hands. 
That tightly hold all the fading gold. 
And bring it to mother — who understands. 

Here's our dear Buttercup, cheerful and sturdy. 
Always a greeting — ^but never too wordy; 
Here, from her bed of leaves, dimpled and pink. 
Little Miss Clover, funfull to the brink. 
Brimming with artless wiles. 
Lifts up her head and smiles. 

Bees, jolly bees, here's your sweetheart a-waiting! 
Whither away? 'Tis the time now for mating. 

Close by the road-side, dignified, stately. 

Nodding politely and bowing sedately. 

Long brocade waistcoat of lilac or green — 

Some cavalier of distinction, I ween. 

Why, 'tis Sir Timothy, courtly and bland, 

Famed for his acres of arable land. 

And frequently seen, when the meadows are green. 

Taking the air with a maid to the Queen — 

He in his satin so gorgeously dressed. 

And she, with one jewel aglow at her breast, 

And lace that seems fashioned of snow, floating down; 

'Tis the lace of Queen Anne, of rare worth and renown. 

Ragged Robin's down the road. 
In his blouse of sunny blue; 

50 



Cheery fellow, never load 
Of care will break his heart in two, 
For he always finds life fair 
Tho' a dump heap be his share. 

Robin has a cousin, too, 
With an optimistic view; 
"Bouncing Bet" her christian name is. 
And a buxom wench the dame is. 
You may see them off together, 
Down the lane, in any weather. 
Rain or sun or dust they care not, 
Life's full joy they quaff, and spare not. 

Little Daisy, in the Spring, 
Decks the fields in white and gold. 
And she lingers through the Summer, 
Fair and modest little comer. 
Till the winds of Autumn ring. 
Through the meadows bleak and cold. 

Purple thistle, splendid fellow. 
Like a sentinel on guard. 
Stands erect, with arms presented; 
Touch him not! Be well contented 
So he let you pass unscarred. 

Black-eyed Susan of the fields. 
In her gay sun-bonnet, 
(Pray you look upon it) 
Such a wealth of color yields, 

51 



That the day seems always fair, 
When her face is seen, 
Glowing in the green. 
Here and there and everywhere. 

Oh, the weeds of all the waysides 
Nodding, whispering in the grass! 
Can it be that some nor see 
Nor hear, as heedless, on they pass. 
There's the silken, white-haired Milk-weed, 
There's "Joe Pye Weed" straight and tall, 
There's the Tanzy, and the Yarrow, 
And the Milk wort, very small. 

There's the glowing .Prairie Fire Weed, 
And the "Jewel", "Touch-me-not", 
Troops of asters — merry masters. 
Seldom is their tribe forgot. 
There's the modest little "Self-heal" 
And her neighbor, "'Simpler's Joy", 
There's the gold, since days of old. 
That's pure of every base alloy. 
Glowing, shining, nodding, smiling. 
Beckoning over every wall, 
"Sirs, give greeting! Here's no cheating, 
Here's pure gold for one and all." 

There be many lovely gardens 
With a wealth of fragrant bloom. 
And they charm the sense with color. 
And with subtle, sweet perfume, 

52 



But the gardens by the roadside 

And in every fallow field, 

My heart's delight — my own dear right, 

Their place to none, I yield. 

As the wind blows where it listeth. 

In such wise my gardens grow; 

No guiding hand to make them stand 

In proper row on row. 

The Autumn breezes rock their stems, 

And blow their seeds away, 

And where they're blown, and where they're sown 

Nor you nor I shall say. 



53 



SOME RIVER VERSES 

What of the length and the strength and the span of the 

River, 
Aye, what of the power, that sets the great boulders 

a-quiver. 
When the floods of the Spring come roaring and pouring. 
And the winds of the Spring fly, dipping and soaring. 
Sweeping the breast of the river like fire, 
And singing wild hymns to the old, old "Bald Friar!" 
Aye, what of the River, its strength and desire. 

And what of the richness and fullness and grace of the 

River, 
The singer of songs, and the joyous and bountiful giver. 
Singeth the River, "My water's I'm bringing, 
Down from the mountains they're curving and swinging. 
To the clacking wheels of the busy mills. 
And the cattle that feed on a thousand hills." 
And the River sings, "Lo, my waters are teeming. 
In pool and in shallow the swift fins are gleaming. 
No smaller my bounty, than royal my seeming." 

And what of the stillness and beauty and peace of the 

River, 
When Summer, dethroned, all her kingdoms and lands 

must deliver, 
To him, who, with riot of color and laughter. 
And joy of fulfillment, comes following after. 



54 



Over the tree-tops he scatters his splendor; 
Then, on a sudden, grown wistful and tender, 
A soft blue haze, on the hills he lays. 
With a sigh for the sweets of the vanished days. 

What then, holds the River, down-flowing in fullness 

and power. 
For the man, who has known it and lived with it, hour 

by hour. 
Has loved it and wrought with it — fiercely has fought 

with it — 
What brings the River to him as his dower? 
Deep through his being its currents are setting. 
On sinew and soul its large Impress begetting. 
For the voice of its anger, its toil and its languor. 
In the heart of a man brooks no death nor forgetting. 



55 



1 1911 






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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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